


Say nothing, that’s enough for me

by CancerConstellation



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post PR1, Rain, feely sex, happy ending !, more water metaphors, sorry this is just. My brand, trans hermann, uprising dont interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 12:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18094553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CancerConstellation/pseuds/CancerConstellation
Summary: Newt feels, a bit, like he has been waiting for this. Waiting for something to crack open.[The one where they get caught out in the rain and it’s a catalyst]





	Say nothing, that’s enough for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeleton_twins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/gifts).



> So. Y’all know the drill. This one is ALSO for Eri because they say some stuff and it just ugh chefs kiss inspiring

It was a mad dash from the open terrace to the small metal awning barely propped up against the wall on rusty legs. They’d been utterly unprepared for rain, but these days they are utterly unprepared for a great variety of things. During the war there was this sense, this urgency, that one had to _always_ be prepared. Always planning ahead, never just living in the moment. Now, there is time. Now, there are moments like this: where the sky opens up like a floodgate and bathes the both of them until they are soaked to the bone. Newt feels, a bit, like he has been waiting for this. Waiting for something to crack open. But, there have been many such moments. It is almost as if he and Hermann have become careless—moreso. They don’t keep time as much. Being punctual no longer has the same connotation it once had. Their focus is not single minded, but all-minded, but all-voiced. Newt will be at the kitchen counter, and Hermann will be in his mind, and Newt will feel Hermann in his mind rooting around. He would call Hermann nosey, ask what it is, exactly, that he hopes to find. Newt doesn’t, because he’s guilty of his fair share of searching and digging and prodding and parsing through amniotic sacs of thought, and gaze, and blatant desire. That they have not done more than brush past each other, sit close together, curl into each other on the couch in the living room—their living room, conjoined—is not out of a lack of interest. Newt has certainly been interested—antsy with it—and perhaps that is the problem. There is so much. So much they’ve said. So much they haven’t. So much they don’t need to. So much they can’t possibly find words for.

They stand in the rain, instead.

They’re silent, standing side by side, the methodic beat of rainwater on the tin roof of the awning a backdrop to they way they sway in and out of one another’s spaces. Wavering. Hovering. In and out of each other’s minds. There’s bound to be a collision. There’s always a collision in between them. Lately they are less explosive. They’ve no need to be defensive anymore. There’s no need for Hermann to pull away when Newt’s shoulder presses against his and Newt lets out a loud breath as if this is exactly what he has been waiting for.

Newt marvels that, yes, it has been what he has been waiting for. These not-quite brushes interspersed with solid touch… Newt would like, if allowed, if somehow permissible, those longer touches to not be isolated incidents. He would like to keep his wet shoulder against Hermann’s wet, shivering one.

Hermann does not pull away. His hair lies flat against his brow, and he pushes it away from his eyes with deft fingers as he looks out, beyond the curtain of rain water, beyond them underneath the awning. Newt looks up at him and sees everything that he’s wanted, hated, despised, and desired all in one man. To want is not to desire, Newt thinks vaguely, pressing his arm against Hermann’s more firmly, and then reaching out with his fingers when he gets no response. To hate is not to despise, either, he thinks as his cold fingers bump against the back of Hermann’s hand, and he draws a line down it to the first knuckle of one of Hermann’s elegant fingers.

Hermann blinks, then, slow and his lashes a wet fan—glued together as they freckle small droplets on Hermann’s cheeks. He tilts his head just minutely, and watches Newt in silence as Newt watches back. Newt bites down on his lower lip, laces his fingers with Hermann so slowly. He is trying not to frighten. He is trying to be subtle, and quiet, and everything he was not when they first met. When he was too much, and too loud, and too big.

And Hermann turns his head fully to regard him, he glances downward at Newt’s fingers intertwined with his and then back up. When Newt looks closer, he notices that Hermann is shaking, but even now there is nothing in the drift other than a monumental unraveling. Newt sways and he gasps and he quickly steadies himself with a hand on Hermann’s arm. Hermann is—they are becoming undone and there is a dam burst through and Newt is trying to wipe the rainwater from his eyes, the mist from his glasses, but still he feels like he’s going to be dripping of the baggage no matter how dry he gets.

And the baggage is that it _was_ that Newt was loud, and too much, and too big, but Hermann nurses that _he_ was too much a wall and a barrier. He was scared, and no matter how big Newt was, Hermann would dig an even bigger moat between them.

Newt breathes into him, and Hermann is leaning on him just as much. Newt’s hand slips down Hermann’s arm, down the length of his shirt as it’s plastered against the skin that’s cool underneath, and he fists his fingers in the fabric at Hermann’s stomach. He wants to speak—he wants to tell Hermann that it’s alright. That he knows. That walls are difficult, but not insurmountable. He wants to tell Hermann that they have time. They have time for moments, for outpourings, for drainage. It is not a wound that they have harvested between them—just a lack. Just an emptiness that desires so badly to contain something it believed could finally, _finally_ work. 

Newt doesn’t notice at first because he is trying to find the words—he is trying to say this thing that is suddenly so much more important than the carefully cultivated silence they keep about such things. The seasons are changing, the soil out in the garden has to be turned over, and maybe it’s time they also do the same. Maybe it is unsustainable that they keep the composure that was suited to the dark, muggy, sleepless halls of the shatterdomes. Newt does not notice, because he is thinking of ways to urge Hermann to adapt to something new. To please, _please_ take his hand into this new phase.

Hermann does not need to have his hand held—does not need to be guided. He is there. His hand is there, curling against the wet of Newt’s t-shirt, pushing the hem upwards and skirting his fingers over Newt’s stomach. Newt presses his eyes closed firmly, clenches his fist in Hermann’s shirt tighter. He is drawn—poised—ready to take off into the rain, made a blur by monsoon, but Hermann does not make him do that. Does not push him away.

Hermann’s hand, so cold, so ghostly, travels along Newt’s waistband, around his body, pulling him closer in increments. Hermann leans forward, makes a quiet shushing sound, and kisses Newt’s forehead. Newt leans into it, whole-body pulled towards Hermann and this one point of contact. It should not feel this good, this relieving, this forgiving. The kiss should not be like a focal point that draws all the tension from Newt’s limbs, but it is.

“I’ve got you, Newton,” Hermann says and Newt is utterly unable to continue pretending to be anything. He is not subtle when he presses his face against Hermann’s chest and shivers. He drags his face until it is tucked into Hermann’s neck. Hermann’s hand is heavy on the small of Newt’s back, and his fingers toy with Newt’s waistband for a moment before they push under, over the swell of Newt’s backside.

Newt pulls back, untangles his fingers from Hermann’s shirt and cups Hermann’s face between his hands as he backs him up against the wall, going up on his toes as he presses into a kiss. Hermann’s hands squeeze him: his waist, his ass. Hermann tugs him closer, as close as Newt can get, and he kisses back too eagerly. With too much bite—and far more touch than Newt would have expected. There is a clatter—Hermann’s cane forgotten, Newt sees later. 

It is far more than expected, but not enough. It is never enough and Newt begins to apologize against Hermann’s lips. It is babble, hardly sensical, and Hermann continues to kiss him through it.

Newt drags his hands down until they are behind Hermann’s thighs. He nudges one leg first, as warning, wrapping it around himself, and then hoisting the other. They are closer this way, flush together from chest to groin as they kiss, Hermann’s fingers tangled in Newt’s slick hair. There is heavy breathing, and rain, and then their combined noises on a particularly good roll of Newt’s hips. Once Newt finds the position that makes Hermann blush and stammer and roll his hips back against Newt’s, Newt makes sure to keep it. He wants nothing more than to keep it—keep Hermann here, pinned against some anonymous wall, under a rickety awning in the middle of the city. There is no one to see them in the rain as they reconcile; as Newt holds Hermann close, holds Hermann well with trust, and bites along Hermann’s jaw.

“Is-Is that good?” Newt rasps, blinking up at Hermann. Hermann nods, eyes closed, groaning when Newt slips down to mouth at his neck. Hermann flutters his hands about Newt’s shoulders before he pats them a bit awkwardly and Newt pulls his face away, questioningly.

Hermann’s good leg slips down and Newt fumbles for a moment before he realizes that Hermann’s reaching for his own zip and then Newt lets Hermann’s other leg down as well. Newt swallows, wide-eyed and not knowing where to put his hands until Hermann grabs one of them and guides it down past the zip, past cool, wet cloth and up against warm, slick skin.

Hermann leans back against the wall, fingers wrapped against Newt’s wrist as Newt cups Hermann’s pussy, rocks his palm against it as Hermann rolls his hips and then gasps when Newt dips his fingers down lower, feeling how wet he is. Newt can’t help but moan, can’t help but kiss upwards against Hermann, dragging his fingers until he can grind them against Hermann’s clit. Hermann’s hips pull away from the wall and into Newt’s touch, and his hands are back under Newt’s t-shirt, seeking out his belt buckle and undoing it, making quick work of Newt’s zip.

Soon, he has Newt’s cock in hand. The grip is too loose as Hermann pumps, and Newt has to stop to adjust it, but it is _good_. It is Hermann and Hermann is everywhere. Hermann’s touch, and his smell, and his dark gaze through hooded eyes. Hermann’s head drops back against the wall when Newt pushes one, two, three fingers inside of him. He doesn’t move them, just presses inside experimentally until Hermann trembles.

“ _Yes_ ,” Hermann breathes. “Yes, just there.”

Newt rocks his fingers over the spot, feeling how Hermann is warm, nearly overheated, and Hermann’s hands are so soft and slick on his cock. After a bit, Hermann’s touch goes away and Newt begins to lower himself but Hermann stops him with an uncharacteristically embarrassed look on his face. His chest rises and falls with his every breath, collarbone exposed where Newt had seen fit to undo the buttons of his shirt for more access. Newt rubs up and down the backs of Hermann’s legs.

“Do you not—?” Newt asks patiently.

“No, no it’s not that. Perhaps some other time,” Hermann says, a shy smile dimpling his cheek. “I just think I would like you to fuck me now.”

“Oh,” Newt says, voice high. “ _Oh_! Yeah. Yeah, I can—I can do that. Right here?”

Hermann blushes even more, flushing all the way down his chest, and nods. “Right here.” 

Newt scrambles upward off his knees and helps Hermann tug his pants down lower. Hermann turns around, bracing himself against the wall as Newt pushes in slowly, forehead pressed against Hermann’s shoulder blades. He stills once he’s pressed fully inside, his heartbeat so loud in his ears and Hermann so close, his arms around Hermann as Hermann’s body shudders against his and the rain obscures whatever breathing.

Hermann’s head hangs between his bowed shoulders and he begins to rock back against Newt, the smack of skin-on-skin getting louder and louder as they move together. Hermann has to shush Newt a couple of times when Newt gets too loud, when Hermann feels too good, but Newt also catches Hermann’s whimpering noises. They only become more frequent when Newt slips a hand down to rub his fingers against Hermann’s clit again. Hermann’s rhythm becomes more erratic. He’s not rocking with Newt so much as rocking between Newt’s hand and his cock, being less and less quiet as his legs shake.

Newt winds his free arm around Hermann’s waist when he thinks Hermann will need the extra support. Hermann’s hands against the wall keep slipping with each thrust, and his feet aren’t doing a good job of supporting him either as he rocks against Newt’s fingers. Hermann straightens, the whole line of his back against Newt’s chest and Newt kisses along his shoulders, his neck. He continues thrusting, feeling how Hermann clenches down on him more and more often, hearing the slick sounds of their bodies, and then finally how Hermann takes in a juddering breath and tenses, hands seeking Newt’s hips behind him as he trembles into orgasm.

Newt is not a man known for control, and he’s barely able to pull out before he’s coming too. For a moment there is calm—calm like a rug yanked from under glass tablewares. Calm like feeling, hearing Hermann’s heartbeat through his back, and Hermann’s fingers finally unclenching. The rain is still pouring, though it is beginning to slow and they can finally see the lights of the town through it, through the mist rapidly rising.

Newt helps Hermann do up his pants again, and does up his own. He hands Hermann his cane, and then he wrings his hands. There was this, yes, but words. Where are they?

Hermann’s hand covers his and Newt stops, looks up from his own shoes and then up at Hermann. Hermann pulls Newt close into his arms, pets his hair.

“When we get home we should take a nice warm bath, I think,” Hermann murmurs against the side of Newt’s head. Newt closes his eyes, laughs. _Home_.

“Yes,” Newt says. “Yes, that would be nice.”

 

 


End file.
